by Jordan Rivet
“I’ll see what I can do,” Dara said.
“Good. Now, when I’m done with my meeting I want you to come with me to talk to Zage about that Fire Blade we picked up during the attempt against my life.”
The image of a tall, mysterious swordsman flashed before Dara’s eyes. They had faced him together. Dara had feinted, opening the man up for Siv’s killing blow. They’d made a good team, despite the fear rattling both of them.
“What about it?”
“I thought it was standard Guard issue, but I had a closer look recently and now I’m not so sure.”
“Is that it?” Dara gestured to the dueling blade buckled at Siv’s waist.
“Nope, this one’s Bandobar’s. They’re different. Check it out.” Siv drew the sword from his own sheath and handed it to Dara. “Captain Bandobar had his blade custom Worked by the army’s Firesmith, and it has the castle seal.”
Dara took the rapier and hefted it, feeling the perfect balance of the weapon. She ran her finger over the stamp in the cold steel hilt. Or at least, it was cold when she first picked it up. Within seconds, warmth spread from the weapon into her fingertips. She nearly dropped the blade as the heat seeped into her blood and crept up her arm. Without thinking, she spun away from the king and dropped into a lightning fast lunge. The blade sang through the air.
“You can show off your perfect form later,” Siv said, but he sounded impressed.
The blade came alive in Dara’s hands. She could barely help herself as she thrust at an invisible target. The Fire imbued in the steel and the Fire sense in her blood worked together to make her movements uncannily fast and sharp. But when she felt a connection forming to the Fire seeping through the stones of the passageway too, she quickly straightened and handed the blade back to Siv.
“It’s good steel.” She didn’t meet his eyes, hoping he hadn’t noticed the difference when she wielded it compared to a normal blade. It was the first time she had held a Fire Blade since she discovered she could Work the magic Fire flowing through Vertigon Mountain. She hadn’t realized how different a Fire Blade would feel in her hands. It was little wonder Fire Blades were forbidden in competitions.
“I want to see if Zage can tell anything by comparing it to the one we found,” Siv said. “That one doesn’t have a maker’s mark at all. It might help our investigation if we know where the blade came from.”
“No, don’t give it to Zage!” Dara said quickly. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the blade of the swordsman they had defeated together the day of King Sevren’s murder, but there was a chance it could lead right to her parents. They had sent Farr, and it was possible his companion got the Fire Blade from one of their allies. The assassin who had attacked Dara and Siv near Fell Bridge had carried a knife with a Firegold hilt too. It could very well have been a Fire Blade from the same source. Too much of the evidence pointed toward the Workers—and her parents were chief among them. She didn’t want the Fire Warden to be the one to discover the link. As much as she deplored her parents’ involvement in King Sevren’s murder, she didn’t want them to be executed either. She hoped to find some other way to stop them.
“I mean, I can look into it,” she said, blushing when the king raised an eyebrow at her. “No need to bother the Warden.”
“Is guard duty that boring?” Siv asked.
“I know a lot of the Firesmiths,” Dara said. “They would probably be able to give us more useful information.”
“That’s a good point,” Siv said.
“I’ll have to wait until my shift is over, though.”
“The blade is in my chambers. You sure you don’t mind doing some investigating?”
“Of course not,” Dara said. “I’ll do anything to figure out who’s responsible for what happened to your father.” She dropped her gaze to the stones. She didn’t add that she desperately hoped she was wrong about her parents.
“Thanks,” Siv said. “I can always count on you.” He reached out as if to nudge her, but instead he circled her arm with his hand, just above the elbow. Warmth spread from his fingers. He met her eyes, and his grip tightened, as if he was contemplating pulling her closer. Dara’s heart did a slow, painful flip.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said.
Siv dropped his hand abruptly. “Come see me when you’re done. I’ll tell you all about my brilliance at the council meeting.”
He turned to stride back into the castle, and Dara found herself missing him before he was even out of sight.
2.
The Council
SIV was still kicking himself by the time he arrived at the council chambers in the castle’s central tower. He shouldn’t have gone to see Dara. All that did was remind him of their hours in the dueling hall together, of the night she had danced in his arms, of what he could never have. He was the king, and kings didn’t think about kissing their guardswomen. He may care for Dara, he may owe her his life, but he couldn’t let his father’s legacy down.
Pool opened the door to the royal council chambers with a flourish, as Siv had instructed. The double doors banged against the walls, making the tapestries hanging from them shudder. The bodyguards who had accompanied the noblemen waiting within stepped aside to make way for the king.
A long oval table made of polished oak all the way from Cindral Forest filled most of the room. High-backed chairs inlaid with Firegold surrounded the table. A Fire Lantern hung from the ceiling, casting warm light over the men and women seated around the table. The chamber had no windows, and the tapestries on the walls muted the echo of Siv’s boots on the stone floor.
He strode to the far end of the table, keeping his head high as the noblemen and women stood. He had invited the heads of all the most important houses in Vertigon. He had to establish his hold over the nobility before they could begin to maneuver against him, especially because he wasn’t sure which ones might want him dead. It was just like dueling, except potentially more deadly.
The heads of Houses Morrven, Samanar, Rollendar, Denmore, Roven, Farrow, and Nanning watched him expectantly. A few had brought their advisors along, and Lord Nanning had brought his rather fearsome wife. They were all at least twenty years older than Siv, except for Lady Tull, the beautiful young widow who was now head of House Denmore. The council members represented houses that had followed his father for many years, and they were powerful in their own right. Siv would have to convince them to respect him if he was to carry on the Amintelle legacy.
He fought down a jolt of nerves as he faced the nobles. I’ll have them all in hand before First Snow. He cleared his throat, about to launch into his opening speech, when another man entered the chambers.
“Sorry I’m late, Your Highness,” Bolden Rollendar said as he strode in with barely a nod at Siv. The doors slammed behind him with a resounding bang. He flipped a hand through his sandy-blond hair and took a seat beside his father, Lord Von Rollendar. The other nobles followed his lead and sat down before Siv could say anything. Siv grimaced as the scrape and screech of shifting chairs filled the room. He’d planned some inspiring words about how they’d all stand together to ensure a prosperous future for Vertigon. Too late for that now.
“Right. Well, shall we begin?” Siv sat in his throne-like chair as the nobles shuffled papers and muttered to each other, not paying much attention to him.
Bolden caught his eye and winked, as if they shared some sort of joke, but Siv didn’t smile back.
“We need to discuss the coming winter,” Siv said, diving into the first item in his notes, underneath the part about the rousing opening speech. “I understand from my advisors that we will have a particularly harsh winter this year, and we need to make sure the people have enough food. Lord Morrven, how fares the plum harvest?”
“The plums are as good as ever, Your Majesty,” Lord Morrven said. He had a gravelly voice that was at odds with his plump-cheeked appearance. He glared across the table at Bolden’s father. “But the Rollendars have been clogging up our a
ccess roads and delaying the workers.”
“Nonsense,” Von Rollendar said immediately. Like his son, he had sandy hair, graying at the temples, and his nose was pointed and cruel. “Our men keep to roads owned by my estate. You must be mistaken.”
“I know which roads belong to the crown and which are private,” Lord Morrven snapped. “The plums will rot if we can’t get them over to the drying grounds in time.”
“Your accusations are baseless,” Lord Von said. He straightened the sleeve of his red coat, which was embroidered with his family’s sigil in black thread. “My house has the right to do what we wish with our holdings.”
“The road isn’t yours.”
“We acquired a portion of the Silltine Estate some time ago.” Lord Von waved to his son, and Bolden pulled out a map showing the roads along the southeastern ridge of King’s Peak, near where Orchard Gorge opened into the Fissure. Their landholdings were clearly marked with red ink. “You’ll find that we own orchards on both sides of the road. Therefore, it is ours.”
Lord Morrven barely glanced at the map. “How are we supposed to get our plums up to market if we can’t use the road?”
“Surely that’s not my problem.” Lord Rollendar smiled and turned to Lord Samanar across the table, a distinguished gentleman with coarse gray hair and luminous eyes like a morrinvole. “Wouldn’t you agree that I should decide who travels on my own land?”
“Of course, Von.” Lord Samanar glowered at Lord Morrven. “Besides, Morrven plums are barely fit for the mountain goats.”
Morrven’s face darkened. “Why you—”
“I think,” Siv said before the argument could get any worse, “that the law makes it quite clear the road itself belongs to the crown. You can’t prevent Lord Morrven from transporting his produce along it, Lord Rollendar.”
“I pay for the road’s maintenance,” Von said. He met Siv’s eyes steadily, and Siv remembered a particularly vicious lecture the man had given him when he and Bolden had been caught throwing rotten fruit at passersby on that very road as boys. “If the crown wishes to care for it, perhaps the crown can compensate me for the work I’ve done on the cobblestones over the years.”
Siv opened his mouth to respond, but others started chiming in, not allowing him to get a word in edgewise.
“If the crown is going to pay for your cobblestones,” Lord Farrow said, “it can burning well fix up Orchard Bridge down by our holdings. It gets too much traffic as is.”
“Now just a minute,” said Lord Tellen Roven. “We’ve been in line for bridge maintenance for months now. You can’t leap ahead to—”
“Enough,” Siv said, raising a hand for quiet. It took longer than he would have liked for the nobles to fall silent. “If you have complaints about the bridges, compile a list I can examine in depth. We’ll find the firestones for it if the maintenance is essential before winter. In the meantime, Lord Rollendar, you must allow Lord Morrven’s workers access to his orchards. We need to get the harvest in before First Snow.”
“Are you going to dictate what we can do with our own lands?” Bolden said suddenly. He met Siv’s eyes for five full heartbeats before adding, “Your Majesty.”
The council fell silent. The noblemen looked at Siv expectantly. Well, they were all expectant except for Bolden, who met his eyes across the wide table, smirking like a povvercat. Siv resisted the urge to glare back at him. Mostly.
“I will do what is best for the people of Vertigon,” Siv said. “As landholders, it’s your responsibility to ensure that our mountain’s industries run smoothly. For now, that means making sure all of our produce can be preserved before First Snow.” He looked around at the noblemen, intending to fix them each with a kingly stare, but they were already losing interest in what he was saying. How had his father gotten them all to pay attention so well? Siv cleared his throat loudly. “As for the rest,” he met Bolden’s eyes, “I’ll put the younger Lord Rollendar here in charge of surveying every bridge in Vertigon and reporting any repair work needed before First Snow. Bring your requests to him. It’s a sizeable, tedious job, but I’m sure Lord Bolden can handle it.”
Bolden’s smile froze, and you could have chilled a bottle of wine in the space between him and Siv.
After what felt like an hour, he said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good,” Siv said. “Now, how about those goat farms?”
When the council meeting ended, Siv felt like he’d been circling his dueling hall at a dead run for the past two hours. Why did politics have to be so complicated? Worse, it was damn boring. Every single nobleman had a request for funds or special treatment from the crown. As often as not, at least one nobleman was mortally opposed to whatever another required. Siv spent the whole time settling disputes and parsing out what each party really wanted. And that was when he wasn’t being forced to call the council to attention again as they squabbled and chatted amongst themselves. So much for his plans to captivate the nobles through sheer force of personality.
The council members milled around the chambers after the meeting, speaking to each other in tight groups. None of them approached him. They seemed all too willing to carry on the business of the kingdom without much input from the king. That didn’t bode well for Siv’s future as ruler. He had hoped they would appreciate a little youthful energy on the council. In truth, they didn’t take his suggestions all that seriously, especially with Bolden thwarting him at every turn. He was going to have to do something about that man—and soon.
He wished he had an uncle or other relative on the council, someone to be a guide and an ally. His father had been an only child, and his mother’s family all lived down in Trure. He felt exposed and vulnerable without his father, even without the grief that still snuck up on him when he least expected it. House Amintelle held the throne, but its landholdings were relatively small. They had won the crown by virtue of his great-grandfather’s strength as a Firewielder, but the days when magic workers held political power in Vertigon were long gone. The other nobles owned the entire kingdom’s orchards, goat and pony farms, and many of the Fireshops, and demonstrating his family’s power was difficult.
As the nobles shuffled out of the council chambers, Lady Tull Denmore lingered at the door, speaking to her advisor in a quiet voice. She was a beautiful woman, young and delicate and sad. She was also the fabulously wealthy head of a major noble house, one that had blended with her own House Ferrington when she married Lord Denmore. The Ferringtons controlled one of the major access roads to the Fissure, and the Denmores owned most of the goat paddocks on Village Peak. Since the tragic death of her young husband, Tull had become very powerful indeed. Siv had intended to propose to her just before his father’s death—or else find a powerful bride in his mother’s home country of Trure—but that scheme had fallen by the wayside. Something—or rather someone—kept holding him back.
Siv wasn’t in the mood to talk to Lady Tull after his underwhelming performance at the council meeting, but he spotted Bolden waiting for her outside the doors, perhaps to escort her home. Siv couldn’t allow a Rollendar-Denmore alliance to take hold right now. He straightened his coat and strode over to her.
“My lady.”
“Your Highness.” Tull offered him her smooth, white hand, and he bent over it, deep enough to be both kingly and gallant.
“Thank you for attending the council meeting,” Siv said. “I hope it wasn’t too boring for you.”
“Not at all, Your Highness.”
Bolden edged sideways in the entryway so that he was fully in Siv’s view, looking about as happy as a furlingbird with a cold as he tried to listen in.
“Would you like to dine with me tomorrow night?” Siv asked the young widow, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Your company and your presence in the castle would honor me.” There. That sounded suitably regal.
“Thank you, Your Highness. I’d love to.”
“Good. Until tomorrow, my lady.”
Tull curtsied
, looking up at him through delicate eyelashes. She really was lovely, and it was high time for him to renew his courtship before Bolden secured any promises himself. Before his father’s death, Siv had thought there was a chance he could insist on a certain non-noble marriage, but now that he wore the crown himself, he was starting to see how important marriage alliances could be. The nobles would dismiss him as long as they saw him as weak, and an Amintelle-Denmore-Ferrington alliance could be truly formidable.
But as Lady Tull left the council chamber, accompanied by her retainers, Siv already had a different woman on his mind. He hoped to get back to his chambers in time to catch Dara before she headed off on her investigation. Unfortunately, his sister Soraline intercepted him before he’d gone more than five steps.
“Siv! How did it go?”
“Hey, Sora.”
“Tell me everything.” She grabbed his arm eagerly. She had dark hair, round features, and light eyes like their Truren mother’s. “Did you discuss the Ringston Pact? Did Lord Farrow mention the—”
“It was fine. Nothing too exciting happened.”
“But—”
“I have to get back to my chambers,” Siv said. Dara might have come and gone by now. He wasn’t sure what time her shift ended.
“But you have to tell me what happened,” Sora pleaded. At seventeen, she loved politics more than just about anything. Siv tried to squeeze past her and her hulking red-haired bodyguard, Denn Hurling, but he stopped at the look of desperation on his sister’s round face.
“Okay, okay. I’ll fill you in.”
“Yes! You know, you could let me actually attend the council meetings. I might be able to help.”
“You’re a seventeen-year-old girl,” Siv said. “I don’t think having you whispering in my ear will help my credibility with the nobles. They already think they can walk all over me.” Even the young ones. He hoped Bolden contracted a very nasty case of gut rot in the near future.
